The Irresistible Charm of Santee Alley

            It isn’t a lie that growing up, I lived rather comfortably. I never worried about if I was able to eat for the day, wore clothes my parents got at department stores, and lived in suburban neighborhoods. My father had refined taste due to his upbringing back in Vietnam being similar as well, adoring our house with artwork worth hundreds of dollars and taking us to restaurants where the bill was never less than $100.

            It would be easy for me to fall in the crevices of being out of touch with the regular middle-class and working-class American experiences. But I didn’t, thanks to fashion street markets.

            Not far from my comfy five-bedroom, 2,500 square feet house, was a swap meet held at the Orange Coast College parking lot. Every Sunday, my grandfather and uncle would take me early in the morning. I would always protest because it would happen in the early hours of the day, but they would always be able to persuade me with the promise of gifting me a churro from the stand at the end of the swap meet. Nine-year-old me, being the foodie that she was at the time, would grab their hands in excitement for the potential warmth and sugary treat in my mouth.

            Little did I know it opened a whole new world for me. With the sun beating down on us, we navigated through lines and lines of shops, with people selling fake Gucci bags, $2 sunglasses, and used Nintendo 64s. It was different, yet still so familiar. My grandfather would go on 30-minute speeches on how hardworking these people are, coming to the swap meet an hour or two in advance to set up, and leaving later in the day to clean up. He would tell me which owners have children, which ones went to my school, and which ones he would spare them a few dollars when he sees them at the recycling center he frequently goes to.

            He would also tell me how lucky I was to be to live so well at such a young age, as many don’t get to experience that.

            “There are many who are suffering in this world, con,” he would say in Vietnamese, “So give back when you can, remember your people as much as you can. Don’t leave them behind when you’re successful.”

            Along the way, we would stop by at the food trucks at the other side of the market, purchasing a freshly made watermelon juice from a vendor, or maybe those $.50 tacos that were easily devoured in one handful. In the end, I would always get my warm churro, munching away before we left to go home.

            Although those days are long over, I feel overwhelming nostalgia by visiting Santee Alley, an outdoor marketplace in the Fashion District in Los Angeles. The scale of the market is larger, with mannequins dressing up like Instagram influencers lining up against the walkway of the alley. You don’t need to look far to find a cheap knockoff of a James Charles palette, or a fake Louis Vuitton bag. The remnants of my childhood are still present in this area, and while the charm is dwindling with the rapid gentrification of the district, the vibe was still there.

            My friends and I went into one of the stores that sold crystals like rose quartz and jade at reasonable prices. Crystals are currently on trend lately amongst influencers, as they use them for cleansing and healing. Many stores are spiking prices on these crystals to ride on the trend, but this store keeps their prices at wholesale price.

            “We know a lot of those celebrities come through Santee Alley all the time,” Jessica, one of the employees, admitted. “If we’re like that, we would charge them like, three times as much, but we don’t.”

            Why? I inquired.

            “Because Santee Alley are for people like us, mija. Not for those rich kids.”

            I let out a shy laugh, looking down at the rings my friend kept eyeing for the past 10 minutes. Picking them up, I hand them to the lady with a $5 bill.

            Santee Alley, and other flea markets like these, before it became popular amongst YouTubers, before it became popular amongst Instagram influencers to create their brands via wholesale, before the international students swarm in to purchase fake Champions and Supremes, was a place where many people, particularly working-class people, come to buy their clothes. It’s where young men nervously get tailored in a suit for their first job interview, where a single mother gets her child a birthday present, where families come and make an honest living. It’s a part of the American immigrant experience, almost at the same level of families making ethnic mom-and-pop stores.

            It doesn’t look glamorous to say the least, but when has anything about our experiences have ever been glamorous? As much as we try to erase those parts of ourselves, we still come back to it when we want to find true selves again. It’s a part of our identity, and nobody can take that away from us because it’s a “trend” to buy clothes at flea markets and thrift stores.

            Whenever I feel like I’ve lost myself, I go back to these places to remind me where I have come from. The trips I used to take with my grandfather and uncle come back to me whenever I go and explore another flea market. Walking in the middle of a fashion blogger’s shot, I go towards the mom jeans that are being sold for $15 apiece, making sure I grab them before they do.

            Before I left Santee Alley, I knew to stop by a churro stand.

            “One bag, mija?”

            I nod in excitement, handing $6 to the vendor.

            “Of course.”     

This story was written for a project for the Spring 2019 semester.